Crimson Portrait
by AnnieAnnProps
Summary: Set right after 'The Great Game' Sherlock and John are sucked into a self-propelled case of paintings painted with blood to discover the truth behind the killer's last painting named 'John Watson'. Made for an English assignment to study the SAT words
1. Chapter 1

"Arg, I need a case!" Sherlock yelled in frustration, his animosity for petty cases apparent when he continued to turn them down no matter how much Detective Lestrade begged him to.

"Still nothing?" John asked the seething man as he walked into the flat, shrugging his overcoat off his sweater-clad shoulders. He preferred to stay aloof from Sherlock's childish temper tantrums, but it had been two weeks since their last big case and he was starting to worry about his friend's mental state.

The consulting detective turned from his laying position on the leather couch and glared at John. His mouth contorted into a scowl, accusing eyes boring holes through the former army doctor.

"Well aren't you so wonderfully altruistic today?" Sherlock huffed out, sarcasm dripping from his words, "Why don't you go out and become an advocate for animal rights or something?"

"I know that you probably mean that-"

"You know perfectly well that I meant it" Sherlock interrupted.

"But," John ground out through gritted teeth. He stood back and let out a sigh, trying to push down the frustration that Sherlock was now causing him. "Maybe you should go for a walk, get some fresh air. Perhaps you'll find happiness in the park."

"Happiness is an abstract idea, john, one cannot simply find it in a park, I thought you knew better." He said with amusement dancing in his eyes which quickly dissipated when he realized he was bored once more.

"I need something tangible, something real that can hold my attention. What I need, John, is not a walk, I need a bloody case!" Sherlock flung himself off the warm cushions and towards the window where the afternoon light streamed in, his piercing blue eyes searching the streets of London below him.

His attention was instantly drawn to a truck parked in front of the building across the street, a young woman unloading the paintings from the back of the car. His eyes followed the one she was carrying at the moment, he knew the shade of red on that painting and he knew there was no other paint that could simulate it.

"On second thought, a stroll does sound nice. Care you join me?" Sherlock turned around, shed his bath robe and wrapped himself in his signature scarf and trench coat. He faced John and smiled at him, gesturing for him to come along.

John stood puzzled for a moment before deciding to acquiesce to his friend's request, seeing that Sherlock always had an affinity for interesting situations.

Sherlock walked into the windswept streets, eyeing the few civilians padding along the road with their faces tucked into their coats. He quickly crossed the street, heading straight towards the truck with John trailing behind him.

As the woman walked back out of the door, Sherlock approached her with a smile on his face. It was times like this, with Sherlock's ambivalence, that scared John the most when he saw how easily his friend could turn from an angry flat-mate to a smiling, almost normal British bloke.

"Hello there, I couldn't help but notice you unloading some artwork, would you like a hand?" Sherlock walked up to her and began to help her with the next large painting.

She looked at him suspiciously, the three of them walking in silence into her flat. After a short hassle with fitting through the door, the three of them made it into the living room where there were many more paintings scatter around, all of them leaning against the wall or a piece of furniture.

"Thanks for the help; at least you guys didn't rip a hole in it like the last guys I hired." She spoke, patting the framed canvas fondly.

Sherlock's mind was already analyzing the woman, his mind whirling with excitement.

_Paintings, obviously hers by her paint stained hands and the way she looks that them, clearly __aesthetic__. Most likely throwing a party judging by the amount of plastic ware that she just bought, _he eyed the grocery bags set out on the kitchen table. _But for who, a family member perhaps? Maybe for an achievement she won for her artwork, seeing how she's displaying it, or maybe someone _who_ loves her art. _

"Or instead of analyzing her," John's nudged Sherlock's side, beginning his admonishment. "We could just ask."

Before the taller man could complain how absurd John's idea was, he was already off towards the brunette lady.

"Hello, I'm John, nice place you've got here." He stuck his hand out, the introduction alleviating the awkwardness caused by Sherlock's staring.

"Hi, I'm Jane Doe. Now before you start, yes that's my real name, my father is John Doe, figures." Jane smiled, enthusiastically shaking the doctor's hand.

"Who's the party for?" Sherlock interrupted, striding up to the two and instantly breaking their handshake apart.

"How did you-"

"I noticed the plastic ware on the table, far too much for yourself, unless there was a giant sale on all that and 50 pack trash bags. Also, the place looks newly cleaned with everything laid out clearly in the open. The counters and the refrigerator have all been wiped clean, so are the windows. So this isn't a casual party or you wouldn't have gone through the effort to clean everything up. Obvious, really"

The two of them stood there staring at Sherlock in disbelief, John not believing the rudeness, though he should be by now, and Jane impressed by the man's observation skills.

"Um, yeah, I'm throwing a party for my brother for his aggrandizement in his law firm. He's very fond of my artwork, so I took them out of storage and plan to hang them up." She motioned towards the various paintings, all of which having an un-godly amount of red.

"Wait, you don't mean Dwight Doe from Dear's Law firm?" Sherlock asked, more cheerful this time even though it was slightly strained.

"Yes, do you know him?"

"Yes, quite well actually, we went to law school together."

"Oh that's wonderful," Jane exclaimed, clapping her hands together, "Well I'm sure he'll be looking forward to meeting you tonight, the party starts around 7pm, formal wear. If you'll excuse me, I need to tidy up and hang these pictures for tonight"

She ushered the two men out and shut the door behind them with a click, signifying she locked it as well. They both looked at each for a moment before heading towards their own flat.

"So, did you actually go to law school with this Dwight?" John asked, sticking his hands into his pockets to protect them from the chilly wind.

"Of course not, I didn't even finish high school. Not that they could teach me anything useful. I did enjoy the countless anatomy courses I took though." Sherlock mused, his aberration leading him to think about the many frogs and the occasional cat he had dissected.

"Then how did you-"

"The newspaper, he was in a small article about him winning a big case which I helped in. I thought you read the newspaper." He stopped at the stairs and looked down at his companion.

"I would if a certain someone didn't blow up the microwave every other second. Honestly, Sherlock, your tendency to blow things up is analogous to that of a certain coyote." John growled out, pushing past the man and into the warm building.

"Why did we go over to help her? I thought you're pledge of abstinence concerning the human nature of helping ended when you died." He shouted behind him as he climbed the stairs and opened the door, shedding off his coat once more.

"The paint on those painted was too red to be paint, I would know." Sherlock caught the shorter man's eyes, "The only thing that can achieve that color is blood."

"Are you serious? Sherlock, colors these days are ambiguous, mulled over and made to look like colors we see in other objects. How would you know-"

"John! It's obviously blood, I expected you to know seeing that you were once an army doctor!" He raised his voice, infuriated that his own colleague would question his capabilities.

"What's weird is how, how is she able to preserve such a rich color when the rest of the paint is obviously months even years old." Sherlock plopped himself down onto the couch, running his hands through his wild curls.

"The truck."

He looked up to see John at the window staring outside.

"What about the truck, it was a plain movers truck, nothing else instead. What about the truck, John?"

"Sherlock the truck is gone I didn't hear it drive away when we got back."

"The truck… Oh how could I have missed that," He leaned back and pressed his long, slender fingers to his temples, rewinding his mental video-tape. "It was gone when we walked across the street back here. There wasn't anyone in the driver seat though."

"What does it tell us? Maybe the driver was inside and we didn't see him. It doesn't matter who drove the truck away, does it?"

"Oh it matters, I just don't know why at the moment." Sherlock mumbled out, leaning back and allowing the cushions to engulf his body.

"When you do, call me, I'm going to take a shower before we head over." John got up and left towards the hallway, leaving the consulting detective to his thoughts.

When John came back down wearing a suit, he saw Sherlock lying on the couch with four nicotine patches plastered to his arm. He claimed he used the patches in order to ameliorate his mental capabilities. The curly-haired man let out a sigh and looked at him, his pupils fully dilated.

"Sherlock, its 7pm, you ready to go yet?" John asked, fixing his red tie.

"We can't arrive too early; it'll make us look too eager and suspicious." He stated plainly, shifting his eyes to a blank stare at the ceiling.

John sat in the chair next to the sofa, pulling out his laptop from underneath the couch and opening it.

"Well when you're ready, tell me and we'll head over." He said, turning his attention to writing up his day for his blog.

"Why haven't I heard of Jane Doe, the painter?"

"I don't know," John replied, tapping away at his keyboard. "Maybe she prefers to paint in anonymity?"

"That's unreasonable, why would anyone of that talent want to keep her name away from taking the credit. Unless she doesn't want us to know where she gets her blood supply…" Sherlock murmured aloud, everything he was saying he had already thought about in the last two hours.

"Well that titles of her paintings are strange, on them was named 'Steve Collins'"

Sherlock snapped into sitting position, angry eyes falling on john once more.

"You knew this and it didn't occur to you to tell me of this information? Where did you see it, how could you have possibly spotted something I missed, something so important that-"

"I didn't, you can keep your ego intact. I just googled her and some of her works of art popped up." John shifted his laptop for him to see the website he found, each of the pictures have the painting title under it.

"Mark Yardon, Sally Termin, Paul Guthaford. All of these are names of people." Sherlock continued to scroll down the page, all the paintings bearing a name for a title and displaying plenty of red splashed about. Some paintings were of everyday things, like a hot dog stand named 'Mark Cooper'; the others were just splashes of color and abstract shapes.

Sherlock began to chuckle to himself, the sound alienating John from the inner workings of the man's mind. He shifted uneasily as the other continued to chuckle to himself.

"What's so funny?"

"What's so funny?" Sherlock closed the laptop and expertly slid it under the chair, clasping his hands on the shoulders of his friend afterwards.

"It's not funny now, John, but just thinking about the fun I'll have at our acclaimed artist's party is making me just giddy with excitement." He let go of John and bounded down the hall to change into something more formal than his pajamas.

John stared at the stop where he used to stand, slowly bringing his face into his hands.

"This is going to be a long night."


	2. Chapter 2

"Slow down, Sherlock, I don't want you looking like a buffoon if you burst in there accusing Jane of being a murderer." John scolded, trying to catch up to him with his considerably shorter legs.

Sherlock turned around sharply, his coat swirling about him as he glared menacingly down at his companion. "A buffoon? Please, I'm not some simple minded mammal, I just want the truth."

John ran a hand through his short hair and let out an exasperated sigh, watching as his friend stalked off to the apartment across the street. He jogged to catch up, not noticing the woman that snuck away while hidden in the shadows.

When John opened the door to the flat, he was shocked to see Sherlock, smiling while in a room full of blithe people, was having a _friendly_ chat with a man dress in a sliver suit. The taller detective spotted him entering the flat and motioned from him to join them. With a drink in hand, Sherlock wrapped an arm around John's should and pulled him close.

"Dwight, I'd like you to meet my companion, Doctor John Watson." Sherlock articulated to the best of his drunken ability.

John's austere mindset kept him from wrinkling his nose in disgust as the alcohol laced breath hit his face like an avalanche. Sherlock already knew he hated his sister's chronic drinking habit and had never drunk near him before. The only thought running through John's mind at the moment was how his friend could get intoxicated in the one minute he had left him alone.

"Nice to meet you John, would you like something to drink?" Dwight asked, leading the two over to the open bar.

"No thanks, I don't drink." John ground out, stumbling as Sherlock put too much weight on his bad shoulder.

The tipsy man instantly noticed the pained expression that flashed across John's face, giving him one of his conciliatory looks as he mumbled out a sorry before standing up by himself. He turned back to Dwight and presented him with the best smile he could conjure up.

"This may be a bizarre question, but where's your sister Jane Doe?" He asked, straightening up and downing the rest of his drink.

Dwight looked around the room, smoothing his gelled hair with his left hand.

"She said she was going to get her new painting from her studio to show me, but it has been an hour. I don't see her here…"

"Well, we can check up on her and perhaps get this man a little more sober." John replied, quickly reaching out grabbing a fistful of Sherlock's trench coat to prevent him from falling over.

"Alright, here's the address," Dwight scribbled it down on a napkin, handing over to John who was still trying to stabilize the taller man. "This is the antithesis of her; she's usually very punctual when it comes to her art."

"Don't fret; we'll make sure she's back before the end of the party." John assured him, leading Sherlock out the door making sure it was shut behind them.

The moment the door closed, Sherlock instantly stood up and straightened out his coat, hailing over a cab and sliding in. The two of them sat in a short silence after John dictated the location of Jane's studio to the driver.

"You weren't really drunk we-"

"Of course not."

John stared at the man beside him, still smelling the stench of vodka wafting from the other side of the car.

"So what were you drinking?"

"Water, I got rid of the vodka when he wasn't looking." Sherlock explained lazily, looking out the window at the dim streets.

"So you poured the drink out?"

"No, don't be absurd, I consumed it. High quality drink, it'd be a waste to just toss it out."

John stared at his chimerical partner in disbelief.

"So you were-"

"John, if I were drunk I would most defiantly say so. Please don't condone what I am about to say for I am no hero, but I do not do things without a good reason especially when I know that it upsets you." Sherlock chastised him, his eyes tinted with disappointment and hurt.

The cab slowed to a stop in front of a large building, the wind whipping around them as the stepped out. Sherlock wrapped his coat around him a bit tighter, sealing his body heat inside.

"Sherlock, I'm sor-"

"John, stop."

The two detectives stared at each other for a moment in front of the run down studio, the chill slowly seeping through their jackets.

"I was trying to be concise, but what I meant was to don't expect me to play hero but please, have a little faith in me."

Sherlock clasped a hand on John's wounded should, giving it a gentle squeeze and a quirked smile. The door eased open, its rusty hinges crying out softly as the wind pushed it open.

The two of them walked into the only empty space in the vast hall; plastic sheeting and canvases littering the floor from wall to wall. Old newspapers were taped haphazardly on the glass paned walls, blocking out the street and moonlight. The sharp sting of acetone hung in the air, mingling with the smell of rotting wood and various painting materials.

"Well, boys, I didn't expect you to visit my humble abode."

Sherlock stared intently at Jane as she made her way across from a door at the end of the room, circumspect yet graceful at making sure she didn't step on anything.

"Give up the act, Jane; we know your clandestine ingredient for your paintings." Sherlock stated his tone calm and even.

"Oh what may that be?" Jane challenged with slight humor clinging onto her words.

"That you're using blood in your paintings." John responded, eyeing the door behind them when he heard shut and lock itself.

"You have to proof." She spat out finally reaching the detectives, standing at an arm's length away.

"On contraire, I had some of the red 'paint' tested, came back positive for human blood." Sherlock reached into his coat pocket and extracted out a sheet of paper, handing it off to John.

"When did you-"

"I got a sample when we were helping you move your paintings earlier this morning. I had it tested while you were you taking a shower, John. You take a god awful long time." Sherlock explained deadpanned, looking around and eyeing a fresh painting to his left. "Honestly, you knew this wouldn't last long, how were you able to conceal it for this long?"

"I have my ways. You know, a blackmailer and a police chief are very compatible." She stalked around them, her hand resting on an easel covered in a paint stained cloth.

"I'm not one to commiserate with people, but I must ask." The woman said, drawing her words out as she toyed with the edge of the cloth. "What how would you feel, that all mighty Sherlock Holmes, greatest 'consulting detective' London has ever seen, if I told you only one of you could get out of here alive?"

"I would say that there are always more options than the ones you present to us, Ms. Jane Doe."

"I asked for how you would feel, not what you would say!" The brunette swiftly pushed the easel over, rapid clicking filled the room as a dart flew out of a tube in the ceiling into the back of Watson.

"John!" Sherlock caught his friend as the man's knees gave out, his body quickly going limp and his eyes screwing shut. "John? John!" His head lolled around as Sherlock tried to wake him.

"Don't worry, honey, he's just tranquilized, I don't want him to be dead before I begin to paint." Jane's smile glowed in the sliver of moonlight that shone through a crack in the newspaper wall.

"Now that he's not awake to give his two cents, I give you a choice, Sherlock. You walk out of here alive, and you'll never know how I paint my master pieces, which I'll add one more to for that lovely doctor you have there,"

She motioned to the passed out man in his arms as he inwardly growled at the thought.

"Or you can stay and I'll let your little pet go and you'll know my game just before it ends, I think I'll have you hung up above my bed, it's quite empty after moving everything downstairs. I will show you no clemency, choose now Sherlock."

The consulting detective sat there, rooted to his position as he tried and tried again to think about the pros and cons rationally. If he stayed, he would save John and find out her secret but he would die. But if he left, he would live and find another way to take her down, but he would leave John.

This was why he was against having a companion; it gave the enemy a bargaining chip. John shouldn't matter, he knew the risks signing onto this, and he would understand if Sherlock left.

No

No, there were more options than that, but what, could he attack, would she have planned of that. Maybe not, maybe…

'Oh you clever, clever girl, you are like a clairvoyant cab driver dressed in pink.'

"Times up, Sherlock, what do you choose?" Jane playfully wrapped her fingers around the cloth of two easels, one on each side of her.

"None, I will make my own option!" Sherlock reached over John's body and grabbed a paint bucket to hurl at Jane but the tin held fast, shifting and staying glued to the floor. A rapid clicking filled the room once more as a sharp pain stabbed his back; his vision was quickly muddled with darkness.

"Too bad Sherlock, now I get to choose. I'd love to continue our little colloquial talk, but I guess that'll have to wait until you wake up. Night night, Honey."

Sherlock wavered slightly; his attempts to regain his composure were futile as the darkness made advances on his sight, engulfing him as he fell to the ground, his last thought hoping that john would be safe.


End file.
